


When It Speaks

by Thimblerig



Series: Musketeer Shorts [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Drugged Love Confession, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"It's only the laudanum talking, Captain.  Don't fret: I never pay any mind when it speaks."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It Speaks

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme: "I'd like it if Aramis is the one assisting Treville with his injured arm after the fight [with LaBarge]. Unfortunately, whatever pain killing draft Treville is given loosens his tongue. When he believes he is merely thinking it, he is in fact saying it out loud to Aramis... " (Full prompt in end notes.)
> 
> Content Notes: Non-graphic treatment of an injury; handwaved medical care; someone going loopy under what passes for prescription medicine; the relationship discussed is unrequited but brings up issues of a fairly extreme age difference and power imbalance.

"It's no good," said Aramis, wincing on Treville's behalf. "The joint is too swollen; I can't reduce it now."

Treville gritted his teeth and nodded, sitting grimly straight-backed on the most solid chair in his private quarters. The agony of the shoulder that LaBarge had maimed was making him sick to the stomach, and another wave of dizziness was coming along. He stared with determination at the dust motes drifting lazily in a beam of sunlight and breathed through his nose. Aramis kept silent, tactful as he sometimes was, one hand resting on Treville's good arm, light and warm on his sweat-cold skin.

God, he'd been a beautiful boy.

"So I've been told, Captain."

Treville realised with dawning horror that he had thought that last out loud.

"It's only the laudanum talking, Captain. Don't fret: I never pay any mind when it speaks."

Indeed it must be. Treville had been too long without a serious injury, he'd lost his tolerance for pain, he thought, and the effects of the drug. Gentle living had made him fat and soft -

"Never that, Captain."

The door opened and Porthos, a wooden crate in his arms, said, "Ice from the Louvre."

"Ah!" answered Aramis. "Their Majesties are generous. How's our young puppy?"

"Going a bit spare. We're sitting on him down the Golden Vine." Porthos eyed the two of them up and down and said softly, "Need a hand?"

Aramis shook his head, briefly. "In half an hour, perhaps. I'll cool the shoulder down first, sometimes that helps."

Treville breathed through his nose and said, "Go, Porthos. Drink. Be merry." Best not to show pain in front of the men, especially not the ones that never missed a trick -

Porthos looked at him oddly, saluted, and backed out the door, light on his feet as a cat, one of the city's strays, burly shouldered and ragged, a king of the yard yet still skittish about taking food from your hand -

"Porthos eats his fill," said Aramis. There was no amusement in his liquid black eyes as he wrapped chipped ice into cold compresses and set them on Treville's shoulder, a touch cool as frost dropped from the high reaches -

Godammit.

Extract of poppy helped with the pain, yes, but it set his thoughts adrift like flower petals in the eddies of a black stream and worse it loosened his tongue, but he mustn't speak, that was a terrible idea, no military secrets, not the coded ciphers he'd so painfully taught himself, not his first argument with the Cardinal, or the second or fifth or seventh, nor what Louis told him, sobbing, the night before the Royal Wedding -

Aramis' empty hands worked briefly. Then he walked to the door, locked it, and sat down on a reversed chair, forearms resting easily on the hoop of the chair back, nimble fingers for the moment still. Creases showed in his cheeks as he smiled. "Why don't you tell me again about my pretty black eyes, Captain?"

And they were lovely, black as ebony, sharp as the striking point of a rapier. At nineteen they had dominated his face, the pencil lines of a young moustache mere grace notes, cheeks pink and fair. His hair was almost the same, shorter now and cropped around his ears, but still lustrous and soft, it would be so fine when fingers combed through it, exploring the curve of the skull and then the narrow, taut span of neck as it tipped forward and breath released -

Aramis' gaze wandered absently around the room. "Still waters," he muttered at last, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Some things were out of the question. Treville would have walked himself bloody-footed down to hell before becoming one of _those_ officers, the ones that preyed on their men. Even so, when the boy begged him for a place without any experience or reference Treville might have... arranged things. If he'd sent the boy off to his brother-in-law's company, d'Essart's Guards would have taken him in gladly. Or Treville had enough pull at Court, even then, to get clever Aramis a post as a secretary or courier, get him posted somewhere secure and safe. Outside the chain of command and away from the twin reeks of favouritism and coercion, even a grim and gruff soldier such as himself might have wooed a young lover.

"But I went for a soldier, Captain, and I wanted the best I could get."

It was not kindness or altruism, hell, it was insufferable greed that compelled Treville to sponsor the boy. He'd wanted the soldier Aramis might become, wanted to know what lean muscle might grow on his willow-branch limbs, to see how far those sharp black eyes and clever hands might strike if matched with a weapon. He'd wanted that cool nerve and boundless effrontery working for _him_. So the beautiful boy died, on the battlefield, abraded away by poor rations and sword-cuts, deafened by cannon-shot, drowned in churning mud.

Aramis rubbed his chin, where a few grey hairs were already appearing in his beard, and sighed.

And what Treville got was so much better than he'd hoped, a fine weapon marked with the dints of hard use, clean and oiled against the weather, every action showing its worth -

"I think I might blush, Captain." 

But no favourites, never any favourites, and when it came to sending troops to the border of Savoy -

A callused hand clapped across his mouth. Aramis, eyes wide, said very carefully, "I think we might have another try at that shoulder, Captain."

Later, when his shoulder was as fixed as it was going to get that day and Treville was swaddled in bed in broad daylight like a goddamned invalid, he said, "Bring me milksops and honey and I will _end_ you, boy."

His musketeer laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it, Captain."

Then, leaning down, Aramis spoke very low. "If you had asked me, when I was a beautiful boy, I would not have told you no." Treville felt lips light and fleeting on his temple, heard soft footsteps and the click of the latch, as Aramis closed the door quietly behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt:  
> http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=418822#cmt418822
> 
> I've been craving some Treville/Aramis interaction since the emotionally charged scenes of The Good Soldier. I'd like it if Aramis is the one assisting Treville with his injured arm after the fight. 
> 
> Unfortunately, whatever pain killing draft Treville is given loosens his tongue. When he believes he is merely thinking it, he is in fact saying it out loud to Aramis.
> 
> I don't want anything cracky. I'm looking for honest heart wrenching confession; I would like it if Treville could wax lyrical about Aramis' hands, his beautiful eyes, mouth etc. I don't mind who's pov is used (although some of Treville's would be very welcome.) Also it would be wonderful if he could get a kiss from it - sneakily stolen or given, I don't have a preference.
> 
> **
> 
> And so Aramis most nobly throws himself on the petard of hearing in detail how pretty he is. Truly the man has a gallant soul.
> 
> When you're writing to a prompt you tend to bend canon to what's been asked for - it's a kink meme after all. Yet I find closeted-gay!Treville very plausible, now that I think about it - not so much the lack of a visible romantic relationship, more that grimly self-denying air he's got. (Aramis has long had my vote for 'Musketeer most likely to trip the rainbow'.) I guess what I'm saying is that this prompt gave me a new head-canon. Thanks, Nonny!


End file.
